Rite of Passage

By Kevin V. Symmons

Descended from a line of powerful witches, Courtney Wellington embodies the Wiccan Goddess who must fulfill an ancient prophecy to keep the growing powers of evil at bay. At the Summer Solstice, she must marry, and she has chosen Robert McGregor for her mate. But Courtney's plans never included falling in love with him.

Robert McGregor, Harvard Law student and society favorite, has the world within his grasp--until he meets Courtney. Irresistibly drawn to her, Robbie is soon bewitched by the lovely, vulnerable girl, despite his misgivings about who--or what--she really is. But her identity is stranger than he could ever imagine.

To fulfill the prophecy Robbie must abandon all he holds dear, but when Courtney is kidnapped, he realizes he will sacrifice everything to save her. Can the power of their love triumph over the evil forces bent on destroying them?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Aug 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781612173887

Kevin V. Symmons

Kevin Symmons is a successful author, college faculty member, and president of one of the Northeast's most respected writing organizations. His paranormal novel, "Rite of Passage", was a 2013 RomCon Reader's Crown Award finalist and has been an Amazon Best Seller. His latest release, "Out of the Storm", a contemporary romantic thriller set on Cape Cod, is already gathering 5 star reviews and will keep you turning pages late into the night. His novel with a working title of "Solo", a sweeping women's fiction work that exposes the tragedy of domestic violence in America, will be released from his award-winning publisher, the Wild Rose Press, in 2014. Kevin has collaborated with award-winning Boston screenwriter and playwright Barry Brodsky in adapting one of his story ideas for the screen. He is a sought after public speaker who has appeared across New England. Visit Kevin and like his FB Author Page, @KevinSymmons on Twitter, at Goodreads, Amazon, and at his website, www.ksymmons.com

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Prologue

March 21, 1947

Three Months Prior to the Summer Solstice

Twenty years of patience, hiding in shadows, changing his name and face. The high priest sat, surveying the Druid elders. Soon it will be over, and you will have brought me my revenge. These Druids viewed themselves as the elite of the pagan world. The high priest wore a scornful smile beneath his hood. In the months since becoming their leader, he’d driven them toward a dangerous precipice. A place he could find the closure he sought. The twelve men and women seated at his front were tools to support his brutal plan. Nothing more.

He stood, knowing his stature intimidated them. Twelve weeks until the summer solstice, he began. The night she’ll be sacrificed. He pronounced the sentence without emotion.

As the dying sun filtered through the thickets, the high priest scanned the low hills bordering the nemeton, their sacred place of worship. He could allow no witnesses to this ritual. Nothing moved. Only the vagrant breeze stirring branches on the ancient oaks.

The spring equinox symbolized rebirth and fertility, a harbinger of celebration and joy. The meeting on this sparkling evening had a more ominous purpose. They would sanction the flawed pronouncement he had duped them into believing.

The twelve met at their ritual site on the Welsh island of Anglesey—where the Romans had slaughtered their ancestors in the first century. His heart quickened imagining the magnificent carnage. Heads skewered on pikes, shamans impaled by Roman short swords, and innocent women and children dragged to slavery in chains. The Druids had been a peaceful people—philosophers, scientists, and teachers. More primitive interests motivated him. The high priest allowed himself a moment of optimism. No conscience. No emotion. He had one purpose: repayment of a long overdue debt.

He surveyed his companions. Membership in this innermost circle was coveted and anonymous. They knew each other by a secret name. His was Gottfried. Membership and elevation to their leadership was a testament to his guile, ingenuity, and the gullibility of these fools.

They represented others, descendents of those who ruled this land before the Romans and the Christians corrupted it. Their ancestors used the planets, stars, and the monoliths surrounding them to predict the future.

The group sat on worn granite pediments facing their leader. Two concentric circles surrounded them. Each of the outer monoliths was in perfect alignment with its mate on the opposite side. Despite many centuries, the stones still enabled their users to find meaning in the heavens.

The inner circle held smaller stones. These azimuth stones predicted planetary paths to help foretell significant events. The high priest made an impressive show, using the stones to confirm their fears, assuring this small band that his observations predicted a cataclysm of such cosmic import it would force them to take action. Hazelwood torches flickered, illuminating the circle’s perimeter. As if drawn by an invisible force, the thirteen stood in unison.

For centuries, the high priest commenced we’ve awaited this terrible event. It will occur on the night of the summer solstice. The witches intend to celebrate their chosen one’s rite of passage. They’ll invoke the ancient spirits to make the young beauty the embodiment of a goddess. That will bring catastrophe.

But she’ll be gone, protested a figure. And human sacrifice is against everything we believe in.

You question me? the leader asked, knowing his followers must never guess his purpose. "Everything has been planned to the smallest detail." He closed his eyes while fingering the gold medallion that adorned his neck. He would succeed.

We will not be deprived, another celebrant agreed. The natural order will be restored.

He’d waited for this: her sacrifice. Twenty years was a long time, but not too long. Three short months and his patience would be rewarded. The debt repaid. He’d used these Druids, warning that her ascendance would bring havoc. By the time they realized the extent of his lie, he’d be far away and anonymous once again.

She is the fortieth in her line, said another in the circle. That signifies great power.

It could be. The high priest nodded. But it will be of no use. She’s mastered their craft. But she’ll find her way to our altar nonetheless. He shook his head in mock regret. Taking the life of one so innocent and so beautiful cannot be viewed lightly, but we must do it, he added, "for the greater good!"

"Yes. She is a witch, young, sentimental and devoted to the occult, another agreed. A sad, sweet creature. Mysticism and meditation rule their lives."

The high priest nodded again. It will be her undoing. He stared at the elders knowing the chain of events he had set in motion. Enough! he commanded. No more debate.

How can you know all this? asked another. Are you a telepath?

No, he lied. They could never know his true identity and the powers he possessed. I have more practical methods. A confidant. Someone close to them. When our task is complete, the high priest promised, nature and mankind will be in balance once again.

Yes. All repeated the chant in their ancient Celtic tongue. Nature and mankind will be in balance once again!

****

Early May, 1947

Six Weeks Prior to the Summer Solstice

Briarwood Estate, Gloucestershire, Western England

The tall man bent, watching the young woman curled up in the silk comforter. Duncan Wellington watched Ellen’s daughter impassively. She’d grown into a beauty. Innocent and shy, Courtney carried the look of an angel. But she was a burden he’d borne far too long. That would soon be over. Moving in her sleep, the girl’s dark curls fell in disarray across her pillow, cascading over the stuffed horse she clung to.

Courtney’s become a beauty. Has the look of her mother, he observed. His words were bitter. He turned to Megan McPherson, his daughter’s Scottish nanny. It’s her mouth, he said as Courtney’s lips parted, curling into a dreamlike smile. Striking and sensual. Just like Ellen’s.

Aye, sir, my Courtney does have the look of Mistress Ellen, the old woman said, brushing aside the tears on her ruddy cheeks.

It’s best if she leaves as soon as possible, he whispered. She needs to get away. Too many bad memories—of Ellen, the accident. Wellington’s words trailed off. He sighed deeply, taking one last look at the sweet, wounded young woman he was banishing. Backing out, he closed her door as he turned toward Mrs. McPherson.

"Sir? She stood, searching his face. Please, sir. Mrs. McPherson clutched her employer’s arm. This is where she belongs—with us, with me. She’s still a child in so many ways and loves Briarwood so much. Miss Courtney needs to be here," the woman pleaded. Her words echoed past the ancestral portraits standing guard in the hallway.

This is not a debate, McPherson, he said, removing his servant’s hand. I’ve spoken to Gretchen, her aunt. She’s agreed to allow Courtney to live there. He played with his mustache. Have her things packed by the time I return.

Mrs. McPherson raised her hand.

One more word and you can draw your salary.

All right. She walked past him in defiant resignation. I’ll pack Miss Courtney’s things and then—Mrs. McPherson stopped, downcast eyes showing resignation—I’ll draw my salary. I’m through, sir!

Chapter One

June, 1947, Eight Days Prior to the Summer Solstice

The Evanses’ Estate, Southern Maine

Life can be cruel, displaying forbidden pleasures, showing us things we want desperately, things that remain just beyond our reach. That was Courtney, a vision of innocence and perfection I could worship but feared I could never possess.

Entering the dining room on that June evening, I walked through the thick air, my shirt clinging to my skin beneath my dinner jacket. My mind wandered as I surveyed my surroundings, drained after my long drive from Boston, an afternoon in the June sun, and three games of billiards with my host.

This is Robert McGregor. You may remember him. He slapped me on the back. Going to Harvard Law this fall. Wonderful lad! Harvard summa, looks of a matinee idol, and tore up the playing fields to boot. Jonathan Evans, my father’s best friend, slapped me again, displaying me. The prize bull at the county fair. Hasn’t been to one of our events since before the war, but I think of him like a son, he added, smiling with the flush of too much wine.

I shook my head. Please, Uncle Jon. I was less than half the age of those surrounding me. I wished again that I’d turned a deaf ear to my mother’s pleas to attend. I dreaded playing the role of mascot for this group.

Some of my two dozen dinner companions approached and pumped my hand. None under forty. This would be an interminable weekend. Waterford crystal filled with red and white from the Evans cellar rested in their hands as they withdrew, smiling and nodding, consuming the canapés that drooped in the damp air.

I took a glass of vintage red from Jon’s magnificent cellar. Men patted my back. Middle-aged women shared looks of admiration and provocative smiles. Clumsy flirtations from those old enough to be my mother. The names of my admirers were lost as I moved from one to the next.

We stood, playing out a scene from Gatsby. My companions were oblivious, untouched by the countrymen who’d paid dearly to maintain their opulent lifestyle. I thought of my brother, Michael, and what three years as a officer had done to him.

The Evanses’ home was spectacular, a grand estate covering acres of birch and oak groves, surrounded by undulating, manicured lawns. The complex dated to the turn of the century, insulated and private, a monument to those who’d benefitted from the recent World Wars. It rested on a secluded cove on the southern shore of Maine’s Lake Sebago, a freshwater sea spanning thirty miles.

The main house commanded a low rise, offering splendid views from all its long, east-facing windows. The somber, imposing architecture belied the welcoming interior. The main house had twenty-four rooms. The adjoining guest house offered another half-dozen, all fronted on the swimming pool and courtyard, which separated the main building from its companion. The massive complex embodied the confidence, hope, and arrogance of post-war America.

I stood nearby as Jon and his wife, Gretchen, called us to dinner. He surveyed the smoke-filled room, pudgy face dark and flushed, mumbling between clenched teeth, Where is that girl, and why is she always late?

She’ll be here soon, I’m sure. She’s been at the stables. Gretchen paused. Please. Be patient, Jon. Her pleasant face showed concern. You know what she’s been through.

She should move to the stables. Spends all her time there. I am so sick of hearing about poor— Jonathan stopped. Three dozen pairs of eyes turned toward the entrance. I stood, interest piqued, hoping this tardy guest might be someone interesting. A vision materialized in the doorway, her striking face and figure framed by the massive arch.

Good evening, the young woman offered as she entered. I loved her accent. Formal and British, its subtle, delicate quality had elegance. The way she carried herself suggested breeding. She was incredible—part woman, part goddess. Electricity shot through me as her eyes caught mine and held them. My fatigue evaporated.

My wife’s niece, Courtney Wellington. Jonathan waved his arm. My wife’s niece. Odd choice of words. Like something out of another time, the young woman curtsied, reminiscent of a scene from Jane Austen. Some of the women returned the gesture. I held my breath, watching. The men let their eyes linger. It was difficult not to. Courtney was something to behold.

She wore a fitted white silk blouse, a dazzling multicolored scarf tied around her neck, and a snug, floor-length navy skirt. A silver pendant peeked from beneath her scarf. As she approached I noticed unusual engraving and a small, dark stone at its center.

Robert, would you escort Courtney to her seat? Gretchen gestured toward the far end of the table.

My pleasure, I agreed, moving to join her.

Hello, Robert, she whispered, eyebrows raised and nodding as she touched my arm. I am late. She shook her head, resuming her study of the Tabriz oriental covering the dark walnut floor. It’s become a tedious habit of late.

It’s a pleasure to meet you, Courtney.

Her lips curled up for a moment. I hoped she might smile but was left in disappointment. The thick, warm air drifted through the open windows, holding the scent of lilacs and roses, competing with the exotic fragrance surrounding Courtney.

We’d spend the evening with men and women of stature. Too much wine spawning tales of the tragedy the last few decades had witnessed. We would hear how they had saved humanity while the world was held captive. I attended the reunion reluctantly, knowing it would give me a chance to see my brother. My father and Jonathan had been best friends. Despite the lack of a blood relationship, we had always been like family. I’d been absent for years. Why this striking young woman was here was a mystery. I promised to find out and make our evening as bearable as possible.

I’m a friend of the family.

Yes, Robert, I know. She nodded. I saw you at the pool this afternoon.

Really? I said, wondering how I could have missed her.

She shrugged.

Courtney was spectacular. Tall and slender, her dark brown hair shone, cascading over her shoulders. Her pale skin looked lustrous in the soft light from the chandelier. Large, dark eyes recalled images of a doe. They flanked a perfect, lightly freckled nose.

It began as she took my arm—the excitement, the wonderful, hollow feeling in my stomach. Energy flowed between us with that first touch. Courtney tightened her grip. I followed each graceful stride as she headed to her seat.

I have no idea how I missed you, I repeated.

I can explain. Her voice was soft and hypnotic. I could have listened to her all night. Thank you, Robert, she offered, inclining her head as she sat down. I saw you from my window, she confessed. I’m on the second floor. A smile emerged. It was subtle but radiant, the glow of dawn after a dark night. I glimpsed flawless white teeth. This was no young woman. Courtney was an angel masquerading as Gretchen’s niece.

I see. I nodded, taking the seat beside her.

Before I had the chance to continue, the woman on my left took my arm. She was forty, on her way to being drunk, and quite loud. Reluctantly, I turned, making polite conversation. Her breath smelled of wine and spicy canapés. I recalled Jon introducing us earlier. I did my best to answer her questions: Where did I come from? Boston. What did I do? Harvard Law School in the fall. How old was I? Twenty-three. I allowed the middle-aged woman a few minutes before turning to Courtney again.

Just as I did, Jonathan stood unsteadily. Ladies and gentlemen. He tapped his glass, then raised it, directing it toward me. I want to offer a toast to Everett McGregor. His son is seated at the far end of the table. As you know, Everett was my closest friend. I think of Robbie and his brother like sons. It’s been a while since they’ve favored us with a visit. He took a swallow of cabernet. Robert. I want to toast my dear departed friend, your father, and wish you and your family all the best. And rumor has it there may be wedding bells in the future. He winked at me.

Hear, hear, the cry rang out in unison as everyone stood and drank, followed by a robust round of applause.

Conscience tugged. I thought of Rachel, my girl back in Boston, as I stared at the captivating young woman on my right. While not perfect, I thought myself loyal. I turned to see Courtney take a long swallow of wine, holding up her glass to have it refilled. She looked so young.

Twenty-one next Friday, and I’ve been enjoying wine since I was twelve, she said, reading my thoughts. I stared in amazement. I was about to ask her how she knew what I was thinking when she offered, Congratulations, Robert. You must be very happy. Auntie never mentioned your wonderful news. Her chestnut eyes grew dark and moist as she spoke. They had an opaque quality, changing from brown to green depending on the light. Turning, Courtney grew silent. She stared at the table, fidgeting with the flatware, scarcely touching her salad or the soup that followed.

Ambivalence consumed me. Rachel and I had discussed many things, but graduate school awaited—she to medical school and me to Harvard Law. We had no agreement. She was determined to become Mass General’s first female surgeon. Now, as I sat next to Courtney, my fidelity was being tested. Jonathan shouldn’t have suggested I was engaged.

She sat, wide-eyed, watching me, playing with her hair. For an instant her lips curled up slightly. I thought she might smile. Instead, she pushed her chair back.

Excuse me, she whispered as she stood, squeezing my shoulder as she passed. Turning, she offered a contrite, I’m-sorry look.

Humph. I’ve never seen the like. The woman next to me shook her head, scowling. Spoiled, petulant girl.

I didn’t hear any more. Courtney was gone. I sat, overcome by a sad, empty feeling. I’d known her less than an hour, but suddenly, it mattered. Mattered a great deal.

****

Many guests had gone to bed, dulled by wine, rich food, and the humidity. Bedrooms in the main house had the new room air conditioners that gave them respite from the heat. I tried not to think about Courtney, but she’d bewitched me. I had to know more.

"Ellen and I hadn’t been close since she married Duncan, Gretchen explained, speaking the name as though it were profane. I met him briefly when I went to fetch Courtney. He was cold and uncaring. Ellen and I hardly saw each other and seldom wrote. Courtney’s turning twenty-one next Friday. She stopped, a faraway look crossing her face. Ellen died in a riding accident this spring. She and Courtney were incredibly close.

They lived on an estate, Gretchen continued, patting her neck with a hanky. In Gloucestershire. It was lovely but isolated. Her eyes grew distant. I only saw it once. She shook her head. Ellen was a wonderful horsewoman, a champion. According to the owner of the local stables, Courtney’s following in her footsteps.

And her family? I asked.

She’s an only child. Her father—Gretchen stopped, jaw tightening—travels a lot. She forced a smile. He and Courtney were never close. She had a nanny, a kind Scottish woman, a grandmother figure. But Ellen was Courtney’s world. That child worshipped my sister.

See you tomorrow. Gretchen waved good night to a guest. That man sent her here, she continued.

Why? She seems so shy and innocent. What has she done to deserve exile? I protested.

There was mystery surrounding Ellen’s death. Duncan may blame her. I don’t know. Gretchen frowned. I watched her with you, Robert, she said, squeezing my arm. This evening’s the first time she’s shown more than polite disregard in weeks. It might be an imposition, but could you spend time with her? You’re so close in age. I think she’d like that.

I hesitated. Me? Are you sure?

You could try. She shrugged.

I could, I answered. If you think it would help. I pictured Rachel, remembering the touch of her hand, her lavish blond curls and hypnotic gray eyes.

Be careful, she warned. Courtney’s lovely, brilliant, and desperately needs someone to be kind to her. I’ve tried. But I saw the way she looked at you. Gretchen, smiled and touched my cheek. I think you could be friends. But remember. She’s fragile, vulnerable.

Gretchen turned, not finishing her thought. There was no need.

Chapter Two

It was past one when I walked through the courtyard toward my room in the guest house. My wrinkled dinner jacket hung over my shoulder. Bending over, I dipped my fingertips in the swimming pool, rubbing it on my forehead and neck. A hint of mist rose into the thick air. I was tempted to jump in fully clothed.

After my conversation with Gretchen, I challenged Jonathan to another game of billiards, hoping to discover more about Courtney. Her vulnerable look haunted me. When I mentioned her name, Jonathan stared, clearing his throat. She’s beautiful, Robert. Also headstrong and aloof. Your father was like a brother to me, so be careful. Remember who you are. It was a warning. There’s more to her than you want to know, he added. That was the end of it. I pressed the point without success.

Do you know how lucky you are, my boy? We live in the greatest country in the world. We’re strong, resilient—the most awesome industrial giant in history. He rounded the billiard table and slapped my back. "Your

Reviews for Rite of Passage

[iamindeed · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Just after the end of WWII, there is a worldwide awareness of evil, and the wrongs that humans can do. Even to the point of bringing an end to the world as we know it, with the atomic bomb. With great finesse, the author creates two characters who are both aware of and concerned with the plight facing humans, although their instincts to face these dangers stem from very different places.

One traditionally (Harvard) educated man meets one trained in the lore and skills of the Wiccan religion, and is destined to make a difference for herself and humanity. Despite initial suspicions and fears, the two are inexorably drawn to each other, partially a physical connection, part fulfillment of an ages old prophecy.

What follows is a carefully crafted retelling of their story, complete with simple details and dramatic twists that keep the reader turning pages to discover if and how they managed to survive the events. Loaded with adventure, both good, bad and questionable characters, and the only stakes being the future – this is a greatly engaging and entertaining book. With just enough detail that is told without great flash and special effects to lead the reader to contemplate the possibilities of the story being less fiction and more memoire.

It’s a romance, with plenty of action, detail and historical impact to draw in readers of all genres, and a truly promising first novel from this author of, I hope, many more.

I received an eBook copy from the author for purpose of honest review for Full Moon Bites. I was not compensated for this review, and all conclusions are my own responsibility.

[rebeccagraf · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

There are many paranormal books out there. Okay, many is a vast understatement. It takes a uniquely written one to really stand out. I do believe that Kevin V. Symmons has achieved that and more in Rite of Passage.This is a richly developed book that doesn't just tell a story. It gives the readers characters they can visual and relate to. Mr. Symmons has crafted characters that are far from boring and with realistic complexities that will have you unable to put the book down.The plot....is another well crafted piece of entertainment. Mr. Symmons expertly gives the reader just enough information to keep the reader guessing and wondering what is about to happen next.This is an easy read though it is not light. The descriptions are vivid. The characters are multi-faceted. The plot is intricate. The writing is delightful.This is a book that involves witchcraft that battles evil in order to save the world. To describe the book would be to tell too much,so I'll let the synopsis you read online suffice.Note: This book was supplied as part of a book tour with no expectation of a positive review.

[jsabrina-219220 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

An enjoyable enough light read, but without any depth or authentic excitement.

The "fated lovers" trope seldom appeals to me because it removes even the slight hint of mystery or tension which a conventional romance story always eventually brings to a happy ending.